


It Starts In My Toes

by JJ_Jupiter



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Het, Heterosexual Sex, High School, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, One Shot, POV Dean Winchester, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Pre-Canon, Pre-Series Dean Winchester, Pre-Series Sam Winchester, Public Blow Jobs, Recreational Drug Use, Semi-Public Sex, Short One Shot, Teen Angst, Teen Dean Winchester, Teenagers, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:07:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23875918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JJ_Jupiter/pseuds/JJ_Jupiter
Summary: Dean at the end of his high school career
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 17





	It Starts In My Toes

**Author's Note:**

> TW: Before you go on, please note that there are some potentially distressing themes discussed here: brief mentions of historic sexual assault and suicide/ attempted suicide (not involving the Winchesters). Oh, and they smoke some weed, too.

*

She’s sunbathing on the garage roof in a giant inflatable donut. Jeans cut off way up her thighs, t-shirt tied in a knot to expose her belly. He’s been in town for three weeks and she is the first and only hot chick he’s seen, she's like a mirage in the desert sun. 

“Who is _that?"_ Dean asks eagerly, he looks around at the kid, his _lab partner,_ wide-eyed. Maybe she’s just a figment of his imagination; he’s been here so long that he almost just asked if there was anything he could do to _help._

Fucking homework.

The kid doesn’t look up from his keyboard, tap-tapping at warp speed, geek personified.

“My sister,” he mutters, distant, brow wrinkling and then smoothing out; totally distracted by whatever is on his computer screen. 

“Your sister is hot,” Dean says dreamily. He leans on the window sill and gazes out at her, has to move back and wipe his breath off the glass twice.

"You probably shouldn't get involved with her," the kid mumbles quietly like an afterthought, flipping through his notebook. 

"Why not?" Dean asks, pissed off because _of course_ there's gotta be a catch on the only remotely eligible girl in this candy ass town. He doesn't get an answer. 

Next time Dean has to go over there the kid sends him downstairs to get them drinks after ten minutes of Dean ‘helping’.

“Are you sure this is right? You better not get us an F, dude,” Dean warns, shuffling the rest of the papers onto the floor, proof reading them one page at a time, pretending to care. The kid looks like his eyeballs are gonna pop out and shatter his glasses.

“Listen, refreshments are very important,” he patronizes, tight frustration on his face as he shoos Dean out of his bedroom. Dean lets himself be pushed, rolls his eyes when he hears the lock snap from the inside.

Nerds are so fuckin’ uptight. He smirks. They’re also predictable.

He finds the sister out back, blanket on the lawn, soaking in the rays. She’s not wearing a bra under her tank top and the two tiny bumps of a nipple bar are obvious.

She pops up onto one elbow when his shadow blocks out her sunlight, takes her shades off and grins at him. Bites her lip.

“You my brother’s new lab partner?”

He gets a weird rush in his stomach and she scoots over a little, inclines her head in invitation towards the space she’s made for him.

“I’m Erin,” she says.

Her bedroom’s in the attic. She has a mini-fridge, a sagging old couch that’s littered with hideous pillows (but feels like sitting on butter), easels propped around with garish busy patterns splattered onto the odd, abandoned-looking canvases. 

She scolds his joint rolling, taps his knuckles with the straw from her Big Gulp like a piano teacher might correct a pupil. Tells him he needs to loosen up.

“You’re not disabling a bomb,” she says, “just relax.”

The joint holds together long enough for him to light it up and then it all goes to hell, comes unravelled and falls like tiny fireworks into his lap. She laughs as he claps at his jeans.

This shit is complicated. It’s not his fault the papers are flimsy; he’s torn more than he can fuckin’ count.

“Total destruction,” she sighs, gathering smouldering marijuana off of his thigh, off her ugly pillows. “Try again,” she offers. “Maybe more spit this time.”

It’s not his fault. She sits too close, body heat seeping and brushes of skin and clothes and it makes his hands clumsy. He gets a little tickle in his throat.

**  
  
**

“Where are you going?” Dad demands, a corner of the local rag flipped down so he can scrutinize Dean with a single hard eye.

“Library. I got an assignment. For Bio,” Dean explains, one hand on the doorknob.

“It’s almost nine, Dean, ” Dad scoffs.

“I take my school work very seriously, Dad,” Dean says, expression as neutral as he can keep it. 

“Save it, son. Home no later than one, and if you get her pregnant? You’re marrying her,” Dad warns, his paper snapping upright.

Dean smirks. “Two,” he bargains, pushing it. 

“Eleven thirty,” Dad calls from behind the small town headlines.

“Fuck,” Dean says as he slips out the door.

**  
  
**

She piles snacks onto him; balances chips (bacon flavoured), dip, cheese spray, a two litre of Pepsi and a half full bottle of coconut rum in his arms.

“Don’t drop that,” she cautions him, and lets the fridge suck itself shut, already moving to the cabinet for glasses. Just when he thinks she’s done, she hesitates, goes back for the Nutella and stacks it on top of what he’s got. He has to pin it all in place with his chin.

He thinks he might be a little in love with her.

“How come I never see you at school?” he says, he feels dizzy in a pleasant way, detached. She's only six months older than him, he was surprised to learn. Her paintings look sorta pretty when he looks at them and that makes sense to him now; that you have to be high before her art becomes unlocked, because she was high when she painted it. 

Jesus, he is _stoned._

She smirks, caps the green marker that she was moustaching magazine models with and lets it fall to the carpet as she fumbles something out from under the rubble on her coffee table.

She has two nasty scars on her neck that she tries to hide with her hair. Dean’s noticed though. No longer open wounds but pink enough that they’re less than a year old, he thinks. Dean knows about scars and how long deep wounds take to heal. Two parallel deep cuts, puckered slightly from what were clearly tight stitches. He can’t think of a creature that would leave a mark like that; so straight they’re almost surgical. 

“Well I've definitely seen _you_ around,” Erin tells him with a grin, “but most of my classes are in F block.”

He laughs first. Has to sit up on the couch when he realizes she’s serious.

“But you’re smart, you...” He’s _talked_ to her. “C’mon,” he says, ‘cause this is ridiculous, he’s seen those kids from F block and she isn’t one of them.

“Seriously,” she says with an overly casual shrug. Even stoned out of his mind he notices the lack of eye contact. She takes his zippo out of his hand and replaces it with a large glass bong. “Try not to cough your lungs out with this, okay. I thought I was dying, the first time.” 

He stares at her a few seconds longer, wondering if she’s joking around.

“Blow when I tell you and then suck when I tell you,” she instructs, flicking his lighter. 

They make out horizontally on the couch for a long time with sloppy slow hazelnut mouths slotting together until his lips are numb. He tosses his t-shirt across the room and his watch beeps just as he slides a cautious hand up her top. 

He hears himself make an appreciative sound when all he feels is skin; she never wears a bra. Her sighing body pushes back against him where he’s hard and, yeah. He knows a go ahead when he feels one. It’s worth the extra PT if he’s late. He rubs his thumb over her pierced nipple experimentally, feels her skin tighten up with goosebumps.

“Do you have to go?” she asks, and palms the front of his jeans, gets a good handful of him just to the left of his zipper, squeezes through the denim.

“Fuck,” he breathes, and her grip slackens so he shoves back into it, shakes his head. Moves so he can slip a hand down between them to get his fly undone.

“No. No, we got time,” he assures, grinning quick when she grins at him.

She’s pretty bold, hand right in his boxers, loose, curious hold on him and he lets her get used to it. She levers her other hand against his chest, backs him off suddenly and he sits back on his heels, puzzled out of his mind. She bends her knees up around him, nods at his open pants.

“Lemme see,” she says, her hand running over her own stomach, pushing her loose top up and up until he can see everything. He doesn’t drag his eyes away, pushes his boxers down his thighs, challenging, and waits as her gaze sweeps over him everywhere. 

“Lemme see you jerk off?” she asks and he feels the blood in his face ridiculously, instant heat, but he does as he’s been asked. She watches every one of his movements, rapt. The eye contact is so intense it makes Dean’s head spin and he has to look away; she responds by yanking the back of his neck, pulling him down to kiss him and it’s incredible. They gasp into each other’s necks, faces, foreheads touching as her hand covers his between them, learning his rhythm. 

“Oh my god, Dean, you don’t even know how good you look. Are you gonna come on my tits?” she pants, and that’s it, that is fucking _it._ That’s exactly what he does, opens his eyes to see it happen.

She props up onto her elbows, after, looks down at herself, at the mess he’s made. There’s spunk pooling in her bellybutton.

He doesn’t know what to say, body thrumming with sweet aftershocks, so he just watches her. Watches her run a curious index finger down through a streak of shine between her breasts, look up at him, a flare, right as she puts her finger tip in her mouth to taste him.

“Can you hand me my shirt?” she says, smiling, and he groans, climbs off of her all shaky on his sea-legs. He watches her sit up, wipe up with her top, careless.

When she hugs him goodbye he can smell himself on her and he can’t get to sleep, later, in his own bed. Has his hand down his shorts before he even realises it, cock hard again off of the memory. 

When he jerks off she’s the only one in his head and it’s... different, after. He comes so hard. It makes him feel weird, weak with it. It makes him just want her more - no relief of pressure. 

The school in this town is pretty lame, a little strict and religious still. Nobody wants to be friends with him, they all stare and whisper but nobody tries to flip him any shit either so that’s okay, he guesses. The students and staff alike have a dead eyed invasion of the body snatchers vibe. Truth be told, everyone kinda gives him the fucking creeps. 

He parks in the teacher’s ‘lot and nobody ever says anything, he wanders off grounds at breaks and nobody ever calls him on it. He hasn't even gotten a single detention yet and that in itself is weird enough that it makes him uneasy. 

It’s like a friggin’ ghost town, but they aren’t gonna be here that long so he can deal.

He usually spends his lunch down near the fish quay and market, salt smell and new sounds. Machines and nets and bloody water swishing in the gutters. Everything’s wet, fresh. All kinds of fish corpses stare at him from every shop window with their vacant eyes. 

He sits on an ice cold iron filigree bench dedicated to men lost at sea and stares back, eats his sandwiches. He never packs tuna for lunch though, that’d just be wrong.

It still beats the eerily quiet and orderly school cafeteria.

Erin must see him first, ‘cause she’s already grinning when he looks up and notices her heading his way, skipping a step over a stream of frothy liquid running down the sidewalk. 

“Fancy seeing you here,” she says, tilts her head at him like he’s making a spectacle for her.

“What are you doing down here?” he asks, balling up his trash, embarrassed for no real reason.

“Needed fish bones,” she says, rattling a tupperware tub, still grinning and all pink in her cheeks. He doesn't ask; her art projects are freaky as hell. She has her jacket zipped up so far it covers her chin. “You wanna, uh.”

“What?” he says, standing awkwardly. He doesn’t know if it’s odd or not, sitting down here at lunch time. Alone. Not like he cares, it’s just.

“You wanna come home with me? House is empty ‘til four,” she offers.

And he gets it, grins back over the somersault in his belly.

“What about school?” he asks a minute later, digging for his car keys all sweaty palmed like a _moron_. She just shrugs, waits patiently at the passenger side door.

“You worried you’re gonna miss a pop quiz or somethin’?” she teases. 

He smirks at her over the roof, remembering, as his door creaks open.

“Me and your brother are supposed to present our lab project at two-thirty.”

She laughs out loud, makes an ‘oh well’ face before she drops into the car. 

Dean feels her scanning him as he drives them back to her place; the arousal seeps through his body, the anticipation inside the car palpable, making his hands slip on the steering wheel. 

**  
  
  
**

They get undressed in turns like a game of Russian roulette and just as tense, neither of them losing their nerve until they’re laughing naked under her quilt, bodies laced together.

With one hand between her thighs, Dean holds her jaw with the other hand so she can’t turn her face and he deliberately presses his mouth along the neat, clean ridges of scar tissue on her neck, realising he’s been wanting to touch it since he first saw it. She stops moving against him but he keeps going, fingerfucking softlly, kissing up to her ear, over the hot apple of her cheek before their eyes meet again. She stares up at him, touching her neck like he’s hurt her, confusion on her face and he balks for a moment, his fingers still inside her, coming to a halt. 

“Did I do something wrong?” he wonders out loud, starting to prickle again with awkward nerves.

“No,” she laughs a little. Blows out a breath. “There’s lube and condoms in the bedside drawer,” she tells him, saving the moment. “Let’s switch places, okay? I wanna be on top.” Dean nods gratefully and starts to maneuver, he doesn't need to be told twice. 

He’s never used a condom _and_ lube before at the same time but the slippery feeling is only jarring in a good way. Erin pumps her slick fist up and down on his cock over the latex then climbs astride, lowers herself down on to him slowly. He bites his lip, has the most graphic view as his cock disappears inside her until he can’t watch, flooded with breaching, rushing sensation. 

“ _God,_ Dean, you got a _big dick_ ,” she groans, hands sliding up his chest as she sinks down. He opens his eyes, holds her waist firmly until he’s all the way inside, the visual making his pulse race. She rocks forwards and back again, the movement so fluid. “Mmm, feels so good. Is this okay?” she asks, voice all feathery, already starting to go faster.

“Fuck yes,” he agrees, awed.

**  
  
  
**

They climb out of the upstairs hallway window and down onto the garage roof so she can smoke. She makes him sit in the donut and then slots into his lap, angle perpendicular. She notices him studying the scars again as she lights up and starts nodding like _okay, okay_ , acquiescing, before he even has to say anything. 

Before she starts talking she takes a long toke from the joint with her eyes closed, holds it in her lungs for a moment then lets the smoke curl languidly from her open mouth. 

“Last year, my best friend Jenny and I made this suicide pact,” she says, and pauses as if that explains everything. 

“And you… didn't go through with it?” Dean surmises, since she’s not a ghost. 

“No, I survived it. Six units of o-neg, two shocks from the defibrillator, and some kind of miracle, I guess. We used box cutters,” she says, gesturing to her neck and passing him the joint. He takes it reactively, stunned into speechlessness. “We drank a lot of vodka too. Jenny just bled out faster than me though, for some reason.”

“You really wanted to die at seventeen?” Dean asks, disturbed at the notion. He thinks about her straight A brother, their nice house, and about the other girls at school with their below the knee skirts and neat braids in their hair; all members of the promise club saving their virginity for marriage. 

“Yeah,” she shrugs. “I’m leaving town in a week, as soon as I turn eighteen, and I think I’ll feel a lot better then.”

“Where are you gonna go?” he asks, watching the emberous tip of the joint leak a pinprick of smoke, he blows on it a little to make it glow. Erin turns to face him, head tilted and lips pursed, he can see she’s weighing it up in her mind, whether to tell him anymore of her secrets or not, wary. It makes him wish for a second that he could make an even keel and reveal some of his own for her… but that’s not an option.

On Saturday she takes boxes of stuff to the Goodwill, he tags along loaded up with swag like a pack mule. On the way back they pass the movie theatre and _Mars Attacks!_ is playing. Erin looks around self consciously like they’re doing something they shouldn't be before she lets him drag her inside. While he waits for tickets at the kiosk she quietly tells him that she has a hip flask of Jack in her handbag and breaks away to get them drinks and popcorn. 

When he catches up with her at the counter the attendant is standing with his arms folded confrontationally, shaking his head. 

“We don’t serve lying, psychopathic _whores_ here,” he declares loudly. Dean’s seen him at school, doesn’t know his name but the badge pinned to his lilac work shirt says “Mikey”. 

“Just get me the cokes, Daniels, for christ’s sake,” Erin hisses, slapping a ten down on the counter between them. She glances at Dean as he steps up beside her, her cheeks flaring crimson, then glances worriedly at the line of people starting to form behind them. 

“ _Mikey_ ,” Dean grunts, grabbing the kid by his ridiculous collar and yanking him close enough to see his pupils dilate with fear. “Watch your goddamn mouth and get us those drinks, huh? Before I come back there and get’em myself.” Dean gives him a quick hard shake that makes his purple paper sailor’s hat fall off and he starts nodding immediately. When Dean lets him go he half collapses onto the register. 

“No ice,” Dean tells him. 

**  
  
**

Erin spikes their beverages generously once they find a cozy spot in the back row and Dean gorges on salty popcorn and gets a little buzzed. The movie is awesome, solid levels of both idiocy and gore, and it gets even more awesome when she stretches up and starts kissing along his jaw, her hand dropping to his crotch. 

“ _How about a blow job?"_ she whispers softly in his ear and he has to bite down on a groan, going hard instantly. He slides further down in his seat, spreads his legs to accommodate as she starts undoing his fly. 

**  
  
**

He skips school again and goes to her house to pick her up and take her to the bus station even though she told him he shouldn't incase anyone sees him. Dean isn’t worried; nobody notices anything in this armpit town. He can tell she’s happy to see him regardless and she tells him to look through her cassette tape collection, to look through any of the stuff left in her room, and take anything he likes. 

“It’s your birthday, shouldn't I be the one giving you something,” he says smoothly, sliding up behind her where she’s shoving balled up socks into her backpack. He peers over her shoulder, reaches around to cup her tits, soft and full under her band t-shirt. 

“You’ve given me one good memory of this town at least,” she admits quietly, tilting her head back so he can kiss her. They make out lazily until it’s not enough and he bends her over the back of the couch, grinds his cock against her ass and she arches her back, grabbing his hand and pushing it under the hem of her denim shorts.

“Wait, wait, I need to see your face,” she gasps, and moves them across the room. Dean goes with it, both of them trying to walk without losing full body contact, tripping with their jeans wrapped around their ankles, trying to kiss but missing each other’s mouths. They fuck bent over on to her dresser instead, facing the mirror & watching themselves, rattling loose make up and perfume bottles on to the floor. 

  
  


She twists her neck around in the car, takes one last look at her house as they start to drive away. Her family don’t know she’s leaving and Dean has to wonder what they’ve done that’s so bad she didn't even leave them a note, not even her brother. He doesn't ask.

There are three Greyhounds leaving at the same time to wholly different destinations and she buys a ride for all three on her father’s credit card. She fans the tickets in front of him as they wait outside, offers them to him. He picks the one in the middle and she smiles, throws the other two tickets in the trash. Breadcrumbs neatly planted. 

After she leaves he drives straight to the town library. He doesn't find anything in the newspaper archives from the last year so he goes back a little later and there it is. Two years ago; two teenage girls hospitalised after a house party. Intoxicated, _high_. Accusations of serious sexual assault were made by them both. _Gang rape_. Only two arrests were made and no charges were ever brought. 

The paper suggests the girls lied or were too drunk to know what really happened. Not enough evidence of a crime. It laments on the seedy teenage grunge scene underbelly and suggests a drug problem and drug user problem that has no place here and needs to be wiped out of the town. 

He hesitates, then searches the news archives for “ _suicide"_ too. One small story pops up in a Sunday only publication, ten months old. _Teenage Lesbian Suicide Pact Gone Wrong!_ The names are redacted. The reporting author calls the victims drug abusers and _sinners_.

It says the survivor was institutionalised for ten weeks. 

Everything becomes clear as he reads the damning articles and he feels angry. He hates this bumfuck town more than ever. He goes in to school after lunch just for something to do and regrets it sorely when his ethics teacher starts droning on, preaching questionable statistics relating to a higher percentage of STDs found in people who participate in pre-marital sex. He throws his shoulder in to Mikey hard when they pass in the hallway, spoiling for a fight, but the kid just keeps walking. 

Two days later, the local PD comes to his house along with Erin’s parents. They ask to come inside and Dean leans on the door jamb, politely tells the deputy _not without a warrant, sir._ They crowd him at the front door, ask Dean what he knows, urge him to tell them where she is.

“She is an extremely troubled young lady and it’s very important we find her. We know you spent some time together. If you know anything at all, you have to tell us,” the cop says sternly. 

“I wish I could help,” Dean lies. “I’m sorry.” 

“ _I know he knows where she is!"_ he hears her mother shriek as he closes the door on them. He doesn’t feel bad at all. Lying to cops and civilians for the greater good is basically Dean’s full time job. 

“Do you know where she is?” Dad asks him, watching the patrol car leave through the blinds. 

“Yeah,” Dean tells him honestly, and Dad’s eyebrows shoot up. “Trust me though, it’s better that they don’t know,” he says with a surety he hopes Dad accepts, lifting his chin. Dad stares at him for a moment, calculating, then nods once.

“Okay, if you say so, but no more cops at this door. You got that, Dean? We got another month here at least.”

“I got it,” Dean says. 

The next day Dean books in to take his GED at the test centre two towns over. He tells Dad he’s not going back to that shitty Stepford high school and Dad agrees as long as he passes the tests. He scores a 3500 on the whole exam and feels awash with relief, with freedom, that he never has to think about school ever again. 

Sam scrutinises the score when he gets home, asks Dean if he cheated and Dad cuffs him across the back of the head, amused. He hands Dean a cold beer from the fridge and tells him around a grin that he has to get a fucking job now. 

Two days after that Dean wheedles himself a part time position at an autoparts store, selling overpriced hubcaps and car batteries to clueless suburbians. 

On the day they leave, three weeks later, Dean checks their mailbox for the final time and there’s a postcard with a picture of a giant golf ball on the front, the Epcot Centre. On the back in black ink, a short message; _Dean, Florida is great! Wish you were here! I feel so alive and at home. I am never coming back. Say hi to my parents for me. All the best!_ Erin has signed it with her full name so there’s no mistaking who it’s from and Dean feels himself grinning wide. 

Dad yells over to him to hurry the hell up, revs the car engine impatiently. Dean leaves the postcard in the mailbox for her parents or the neighbours or cops to find, smug in the knowledge that she got on the bus to San Francisco. 

*


End file.
